Thursday 12/06/2007 01:45:00 AM

Turn her over. To find abundant stereotypes of woman. Her vagina the toll booth on a long and winding road. Turn her over. She's not such riddle. Pieces look for each other when you turn way. The riddle is if they will stay together long enough to become something.

The dragon breathes fire. The little ant carries the coals. We are small. Like the universe is. We are large. Like our thoughts. The ladder whispers it's truths to climbers. The same truths is shouts to those fallen.

We're not trying to be found.

We're solving the riddle from the inside. With each new question and old heaven comes apart. So we make new ones, but they are too young to know what we want.

Turn her over. Dissect the dress until animal is all that's left of her. Turn her over. Fuck her from behind. So she can't put a face on the villain. What would be the fun in that.

Turn her over. Coax the riddle out of its hiding place. Like every solution it loses something going from the science to the skin. Turn her over. She doesn't look that different without her face.

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